


principles are like prayers (noble, of course, but awkward at a dinner party)

by Anonymississippi



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Arranged Marriages, Belated General Danvers Week, Downton Abbey AU, F/F, royal!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7093186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymississippi/pseuds/Anonymississippi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Countess of Midvale Lady Eliza Danvers is hosting a dinner party a year after her husband, the Earl of Midvale, Lord Jeremiah Danvers, was killed in an expedition to the continent with his good friend and fellow researcher for the crown, Lord Henshaw. Several prominent Lords and Ladies will be in attendance, including the Grand Duchess of Kandor, a small sovereign state on the continent.</p>
<p>Eliza's only daughter, Lady Alexandra Rose Danvers, has no right to inherit because of the current British law prohibiting female succession. The heir apparent is an American castoff, one slimy businessman fated to become Lord Lord... unless Alex finds a loophole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**May 1913: Yorkshire, England**

 

* * *

 

 

“I won’t do it. I will not be compelled to saddle myself with a brute.”

“You have no choice,” Eliza chides her daughter. “If you wish to have any influence over the estate, if you desire to continue construction on yours and your father’s ‘pet project’, you must marry him; if not for the match, then the money alone.”

“Do not belittle father’s legacy,” Alex snaps, jerking her head round. The necklace dangling over her collarbones plops to the floor, a heavy emerald thudding into plush carpet.

“Apologies, m’lady,” Kara starts, bending quickly to retrieve the jewel. She moves stiffly in her prim, black and white uniform, returning the clasp to Alex’s neck and prying it apart with nimble fingers. “Begging your pardon your ladyship, but I can come up and help Lady Alex finish dressing once you’ve concluded your discussion—”

“This affects you as well, Kara,” Eliza says.

The countess’s skirts rustle and sway, her movement crinkling a smoothly pressed gown as she takes her seat at the foot of Alex’s four-poster bed. Mahogany. Oak. Cherry. Some durable hardwood imported from an exotic locale, fashioned into furniture and passed on and down through the generations, like so many of the heirlooms in the sumptuous bedroom. Alex despises the trinkets, would rather be out with the estate agent in worn boots and comfortable trousers, surveying the extent of her acreage, reviewing the range and construction of the observatory and grand telescope that is her life’s ambition.

But no. Ever since Jeremiah died, her ambitions have been stunted, primarily by her mother’s disapproval, the dwindling estate funds, and the lack of any heir apparent. Alex had only lost her father and fiancée last year… she could not lose her home as well.

Eliza clears her throat and Alex perks up, arching a perfectly-penciled brow at her mother’s poorly concealed condescension. Alex is obviously unsettled and yet Eliza pushes, as she always has, her motherly ‘encouragement’ bordering on churlishness.

Alex hasn’t felt this ill at ease since two months after her father’s death, when they’d found out some rogue had snuck his way onto the estate and into the women’s hall of the servant’s quarters. Thankfully Kara, her best friend, her walking comet, had dispatched the vagrant before he could commit any atrocity against the sleeping women. But he’d vanished before the police arrived, leaving Alex with swirling doubts unassuaged concerning Jeremiah’s and J’onn’s deaths.

“Even as old as she is,” Eliza tells Kara, shaking Alex from her musings, “Alexandra still needs to learn that her actions have consequences.”

“Please, mother.”

Alex shuts her eyes against the glitz and shine. If she keeps them open it’s always reflected back at her, the glitter, the gemstones, the trappings of position, all fine flowy fabrics and dangling antique lavaliers. Nightly, she dons her useless armor against the gossip and the scheming of certain circles, yet it feels no less heavy than chainmail, no less burdensome than the handsome red costume of the King’s Guard. At least those soldiers have sheaths for their rapiers, holsters for their arms… she has nothing more than gold filigree wrapped about her wrist. Beautiful, certainly, and with all the restraint of a shackle. She cannot bear adding another ring to the fourth finger of her left hand, no matter how much of a stir it will cause during the season in London.

“Kara, how often must we tell you not to stand on ceremony when it’s only us?” Alex turns from her dressing table, stilling Kara’s hands behind her neck. She sets the necklace aside, knowing Kara will still have to pull her hair up and set it before they go down. She’s only fidgeting with the jewelry because Eliza, as is her custom, is making them all uncomfortable.

“Mother, Kara deserves some say in who we allow into this family,” Alex tries, knowing her mother cannot deny Kara anything. “It’s her home, her secret to keep much more than it is ours.”

“She deserves a word, but that does not mean the government will hear her,” Eliza counters. “Nor should they! Can you imagine what investigators might think if they questioned Kara…” Eliza trails off, rubbing the cleft of her quivering chin. She breathes deeply, then exhales, back with her learned control, her aristocratic resolve. “We knew that the solicitors would eventually locate the heir, Alexandra. Him being in America, both parents dead… I was as astonished as you were when the letter came.”

“And yet he arrived so quickly, mother,” Alex protests. “One afternoon tea with the pinnacle of ungentlemanly insolence and I’m to accept his proposal? Just like that?”

“His money could save your home, Alexandra,” Eliza reiterates, as if they’ve not had this same conversation every day over the last fortnight. “Our year of mourning was the year we had Midvale to ourselves. Our last year, it would seem. With my dowry tied to the entail establishing male heirs, it is astonishing that it took the solicitors as long as it did to find him—that they let us keep it as long as they did.”

“That the search extended beyond the mourning period is remarkable,” Kara mumbles, carefully folding Alex’s dressing robe and returning it to the armoire. Kara removes the garnet gown with gold stitching they’d both selected for the grand dinner this evening, the roster of guests far more impressive than they’ve ever hosted since Alex has come of age. “Perhaps Jeremiah saw fit to grant you that final blessing.”

“With as much precedence as we have for cosmic influence, I doubt he had much hand in prolonging the discovery,” Eliza rebuts. “If there had been any blessing, J’onn—that is, Lord Henshaw, would have survived the expedition as well. He might have been your father’s age—”

“Three hundred years? Honestly mother—”

“But at least he knew of Kara’s secret. And _you_ propositioned _him,_ Alexandra! I find your argument concerning Mr. Lord so hypocritical; you knew even with J'onn that it was just a contract.”

“A contract with a being who already knew our secrets mother, _not_ an outsider.”

Alex peers into the mirror at her dressing table with a critical glare, hoping she can scare her mother from the room, armed with little more than her distasteful expression. Eliza is so composed, firm as ever, dressed in midnight navy to signify the end of her year of mourning. Despite her preference, Alex had stopped wearing black six months ago, knowing she would be surveyed and questioned beyond what was comfortable if she continued with the rigid style and dour color—these days, they were hardly held to Victorian standards. Besides, Alex had only been engaged at the time of the accident, not married, so she could get away with only six months of mourning dress; she wanted so desperately to camouflage herself while in London, yet complete black only made her stand out.

“J’onn would have wanted this union even less than father. They both knew the stakes were too high for us to ever consider a marriage so quickly. He will stumble across _all_ of our research, and no husband—no matter how liberal-minded he purports to be with his new money—will allow me to continue my studies in London," Alex explains. "He will shut down the construction of the observatory… I just know it, mother. I’ve read all about the man and I cannot abide this. I cannot be with him.”

“Alexandra, you were to give up your studies within the year, regardless,” Eliza says. “You lost your sponsor when J’onn died. And they will never admit you to the University, not without a letter from the King himself.”

“I will not make the same mistakes you did!” Alex swears, thumping her fists on the dressing table. “I refuse to give up my talent, my passion.” The hairbrushes and pins, the silver jewelry boxes and beads and delicate baubles all rattle atop the table, shudder so violently an earthquake might have rumbled beneath the foundations of Midvale.

“I have sacrificed the better portion of my life to keep this family’s secrets, I will not relinquish what’s left of it without a fight!” Alex cries.

“Calm yourself!” Eliza stands abruptly, her hand flying to the necklace at her throat. Alex wonders if she holds the piece to keep from choking her only daughter; or if she, like Alex, needs some sort of anchor as they both drift helplessly in an ocean of unfortunate legalities. Jeremiah had given Eliza that pendant before the Fort Rozz expedition. It was all Lady Danvers had of Jeremiah, her last parting gift from the Earl of Midvale.

“You will not speak to me in this manner,” Eliza begins, simmering with displeasure. “You are no longer a child, Alexandra. You know better than most your duty, and with this course, we at least have some hold on the estate. Or would you rather be relocated to a village house? Hmm? Lose the apartment in London and have the staff count slashed, with no certainty of whether Kara follows us. I am sorry, Kara, but it is true.”

“I understand, m’lady,” Kara bows her head deferentially (back to m’lady, not Eliza, Alex notes), keeps her fingers tucked together before her. The girl could overtake Eliza and Alex both with her pinky fingers, and yet she remains subservient, powerless due to her station and always in the background… safe, hidden, quiet at Alex’s side.

“Petulance is the last resort of the desperate, and is unbecoming for the Lady of this estate. You will go down, you will meet with Mr. Lord, and we will announce your engagement at dinner,” Eliza commands. “This is our first showing of the estate since your father’s passing. And with the Grand Duchess concluding her British tour at Midvale, you will be more than civil. You will be bright, and engaging, and as captivating as those stars you fawn over.”

Eliza begins her retreat from the bedroom.

“You cannot force this upon me,” Alex bites, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes.

“You will do this, not for me, but for Midvale. I know you love this place more than your own happiness. And it will, as it has for more than a decade, keep Kara safe,” Eliza says, delivering the killing blow. “It is out of my hands, Alexandra.”

“Mother,” Alex stands, her fingers balled into fists at her sides, rubbing against the silk of her slip. “ _Please_.”

“I must prepare to receive the Grand Duchess,” Eliza sighs. “Mr. Lord will be staying with us tonight, as well as Lords Pierce and Olsen, Lady Lane and the Viscountess Grant. Their entourages will follow… thirty, at least, at the table.”

“You don’t want me to embarrass you… do you?” Alex whispers, her shame multiplying, tangible, crushing in ways it’s never been before.

“I don’t want you to embarrass yourself,” Eliza replies, before slipping out the doorway.

Alex collapses, stunned, her existence rearranged as easily as paintings in the gallery.

And all in less than a month. She never thought she’d feel as gutted as the day she learned of her father’s death; but now, this moment on her knees, crying like a child in her bedroom, she feels so much worse. Her life and all of her plans—dashed in an instant.

Kara follows Alex to the floor. Kara, who has been her confidant and constant, ever underfoot and close by, closer than a sister for all they know of each other. But despite her exceptionalism, Kara is helpless to prevent the enactment of the entail, not without legal precedent or a royal pardon from the law.

Kara can do nothing. Alex can do nothing. Her mother could play at sympathy and console Alex’s troubles but Eliza, Countess of Midvale, can do nothing but let the situation play out. Alex must marry a far removed second or third cousin, Lord _Lord_ (how utterly ridiculous!), in order to keep the home she’s had since birth.

Her _birthright._

Her land.

The land where she and her father discovered a meteorite (and yet it wasn’t a meteorite) of most curious design over a decade ago; inside was a little girl, not quite her own age, of exquisite beauty, keen mind, and extraordinary powers. An inhabitant, she said, of a far-off planet called Krypton. Alex had initially despised when her parents had taken the queer creature in as ward; for her father’s attention was then split, and ever more focused on Kara the anomaly. Alex could not compete with a girl who held fire in her eyes, swiftness in her feet, the strength of an army in her right hand. Nor could she compete with such grace and beauty, even so apparent as a child that visitors remarked constantly, scrutinized perpetually, and questioned incessantly. The village was abuzz, the servants spreading great tales of Kara’s origin. Despite his best efforts, Jeremiah Danvers, Earl of Midvale, would never be able to keep Kara as a part of their family if, merely by being only half herself, she was to draw so much attention.

And so, to Alex’s embittered delight (when she had all the knowledge of a spiteful thirteen-year-old) Kara was sent downstairs to begin her time in service. She remained close by and obviously favored, training for a year to be Alex’s lady’s maid; and even after her training was over, Kara was granted special privileges. But the move to service kept her out of the spotlight, away from prying eyes, behind the very walls she could see straight through.

With Kara downstairs the questions stopped, but the research did not. A year after Kara had arrived, there was a great disturbance at the house in the middle of the night. The incident occurred not long after Alex and Kara had broken her parents’ very strict rules—when Kara had convinced Alex to fly for the first time under the cover of darkness. Alex remembers watching from the between the rails on the landing of the second floor, that night Lord Henshaw, in his bright red military uniform, escorted her father out in his dressing gown and reinstated his active duty status for the King’s researchers in London. Two years followed when, as her father was increasingly absent, Alex grew increasingly closer with Kara.

And then one evening, Lord Henshaw appeared at the front door again, this time holding her father’s broken, bloodied body.

Kara had been with her then, and Alex had hugged her, cried into her neck, begged her to use the powers she swore she’d never reveal, just to see if Jeremiah was alive. Alex still recalls the stricken look on Kara’s face, her trembling lip, her furrowed brow, and then the twist of her head, the signal that she was filtering out all the sounds of Midvale and listening for conversation rooms away.

“He’s alive, but badly injured, Alex.”

And that is how Alex, Kara, Eliza, and a young footman in training named Winslow, discovered that Lord Henshaw had been killed in the expedition, replaced, for secrecy’s sake, by a Martian named J’onn J’onzz. He’d saved Jeremiah’s life after a run-in with the real Lord Henshaw, but due to her father’s gentleness, his conscientiousness, his willingness to allow J’onn his freedom, even going so far as to break the oath taken for the King’s secret forces at the time, J’onn vowed to return the man to his family. With Jeremiah’s recovery and J’onn’s arrival, the frame of Alex’s and Kara’s lives shifted.

Firstly, Kara didn’t feel so terribly alone, growing up as she did, knowing that J’onn was similar to her. And Alex, more open to new discoveries due to her association with extra-terrestrials, researched and learned and studied and wondered at the stars, the place where beings like J’onn and Kara originated. Alex learned about what her father studied, what her mother was secretly fascinated by.

The stars had driven so much of her formative years that she applied for tutelage under the greatest minds in London—studied subjects unknown to man with J’onn, but also with noted astronomers and doctors and even biologists, all to satisfy an unquenchable thirst for knowledge that she’d had ever since Kara landed on her family property. She was able to secure access to the most technically advanced labs, observatories, and operating rooms of the day, all with J’onn’s financial backing and encouragement.

Of course, her studies reflected poorly for her marriage prospects, as her mother needlessly reminded her.

(“Why must you go to London so often without honoring your social engagements?” Eliza chided.

“The library here affords only half of the texts I can find there,” Alex had told her. “If I could fashion my own observatory here, in the country, perform my own research—”

“Do not build castles in a star-studded sky, Alexandra,” Eliza cautioned, and had cautioned, every week since she came out to society).

But when Alex turned twenty-four, Eliza put her foot down. No more time in London until Alex settled her affairs; until Alex at least attempted meetings with eligible sons of Lords and Ladies; until Alex and Midvale were, somehow, guaranteed an heir. In the back of her mind, she knew it was down to her, being the only child and female to boot. But the solution, though odd, would no doubt satisfy all conditions necessary for maintaining their positions at the estate.

Of course it was Alex who came up with the idea, as awkward as proposing it to her parents was… but she had been attending special instruction with the scientists in London under “Lord Henshaw’s” sponsorship for almost five years. It would seem natural, despite the apparent gap in age, for Alex to accept him.

“We… wouldn’t have to…” her cheeks had flushed crimson, bringing up the topic before Eliza, Jeremiah, and J’onn. “…there are ways to acquire children, infants even, without much fuss. Pregnancies can be faked as easily as they can be hidden. If J’onn and I marry, it keeps his identity safe, it keeps Midvale in our name, and we have a presumed blood heir to satisfy the work of the next generation, when we can wait no longer. I can finally begin construction on the observatory, father.”

“Alexandra…” Eliza gaped, but Jeremiah had placed his hand on his wife’s arm to staunch the flow of criticisms.

“J’onn, I know we can never replace what you lost. I would never be your wife in the traditional sense, not when you’ve been so much like a father to me,” Alex had pushed on. She can’t remember how many times she sat in her room, practicing this speech with Kara, with her mirror, with her textbooks and her pillow. Her entire future hinged on her parent’s approval, on J’onn’s acceptance. “But you are a part of this family, and it would be a great honor if you would consent to this arrangement. I have the greatest affection and respect for you but… it would be a marriage in name and little else.”

J’onn had removed the spectacles he’d acquired as ‘Lord Henshaw’, and looked toward Jeremiah for some sort of cue. She remembers it all, distilled down to a moment, like sand suspended in the stream of grains poured to the bottom of an hourglass. Eliza’s shock. Jeremiah’s concern. J’onn’s surprise.

“Will this truly make you happy, Alex?” Jeremiah had asked her.

“Yes father, more than anything.”

“Are you quite sure, Alexandra?” Eliza this time, ever second-guessing. Her mother cared to the point of inhibition.

“You do not wish to… court a man your age?” J’onn had asked quietly, knowingly. “A man your _species_?”

“I want to learn what is beyond this world. My love for my family and my love for the stars will trump any love a man could offer me.”

“You have not given many a fair chance—”

“Spare me the tales of my spurned suitors, mother, as if they have at all to do with _love_ ,” Alex had scoffed. “I’ve done what you’ve asked, as is my duty. Secured my future, and the future of this household. Is it conventional? Most certainly not, but we threw convention to the dogs as soon as Kara crashed on our property. I am not conventional and my life will not be. Of this I am certain.”

They had been stunned, Alex thinks, all three of her elders, huddled closely in the security of the library. Alex knew Kara was listening from wherever she was in the house, holding her breath, just as Alex held her own, awaiting their answer.

“Well,” Jeremiah had said, rising from his position on the couch. “I must concede that you defy convention, Alex.”

“Father, please—”

“You have my blessing if J’onn agrees.”

“J’onn?” Alex had twirled from her father toward her mentor, her teacher, had tried to think of every academic breakthrough she’d made that sounded impressive to his Martian mind, and was ready to call upon those memories if she had to.

“I cannot think of a better way to ensure my privacy. Jeremiah is already like my brother, and you, Alex…” J’onn rose, extended his hand, which Alex took, smiling. “… I’ve not been on this planet long, but I believe I was supposed to do the asking?”

“Not when you have me to do the thinking for you, J’onn,” Alex had said. “Does this mean we’ll be making an announcement soon?”

“I believe so. And it does stand to do you some favors, your daughter securing ties to a Viscount,” J’onn had said.

“As if you’ve forgotten your position as Marquess,” Jeremiah had then taken J’onn’s hand, and given it a firm shake. “You will not let me live it down.”

“Never, my friend, even though all these titles sound exactly the same,” J’onn had said, and in that instant, Alex supposed she would be happy for the rest of her life.

But her life, of course, was anything but usual. Anything but conventional, as her father said. The rupture to normality came after J’onn and Jeremiah never returned from the Fort Rozz expedition on the continent, her father and fiancé stolen all in one fell swoop. Shortly thereafter, Alex had nearly met her own demise in a Zeppelin incident, the last of the scientific excursions she could afford before the solicitors took a look at the estate finances and realized straits were more dire than they’d believed.

As is custom with lady’s maids, Kara had accompanied her to London, and—upon seeing the fire likely to dismantle the entire airship—had flown to Alex’s rescue, saving everyone aboard and then disappearing into the London night.

Eliza had been furious, Alex wary, Kara… ecstatic. Since then, Kara had kept her vigilante jaunts to a minimum. But there were still occasional reports as far north as Glasgow and even further south, down to Brighton beach, where a beautiful young woman would swoop in and save the day, preventing bank robberies, illegal duels, muggings after dark.

Kara was elated, and Alex happier than ever for her; happy Kara found some worth in her role as savior, happy Kara had a place to return to, an identity to lose herself in when the attention became too overwhelming. Alex wanted Kara safe, protected, but that would not be the case if she lost Midvale to one arrogant American named Maxwell Lord.

“Alex?” Kara calls, attempting to hurl her back to the present, to break her away from all the careful planning of the past… now brought to ruin. “Alex?” Kara asks again, but Alex only hears her faintly, as if through a roaring curtain of water.

“ _M’lady, M’lady,_ you are not well,” Kara says, tapping incessantly at Alex’s shoulder as she did in their adolescence, sing-songing Alex’s title until it needled her to _no end_.

“Don’t call me that,” Alex snaps, her fingernails digging into the fibers of the carpet.

“I can’t leave you here on the floor all night,” Kara says. “Mrs. Smith would have my head if you didn’t get down there before they announced everyone.”

“I’d pay fifty pounds to watch her attempt your beheading,” Alex replies smartly.

“Oh, how ghastly!” Kara remarks, clutching at her neck and poking her tongue out of her mouth in some comical pose of expiration.

Alex laughs involuntarily, Kara’s comfort far too easy to fall into, even as her life burns with furnace flames about her.

Kara rids herself of the notion that Alex is getting up anytime soon, and instead settles more comfortably down beside her. She throws her arm around Alex’s shoulders and holds her for a few moments, allowing all the thoughts in Alex’s frenzied mind to quiet enough for her to speak.

“Alex, what are you going to do?” Kara asks.

“I’ll have to cut mother off before she makes the announcement.”

“How? It will be in the middle of dinner. She’ll have Lord seated beside you, most assuredly.”

“Maybe I can pull off a miracle,” Alex says. “Announce my acceptance to the university. Claim that was the big news. She’s sure to spread some suggestion during the announcements and aperitifs.”

“But you haven’t had the interview yet,” Kara reminds her.

“I'm afraid to schedule it," Alex confesses. "They accepted som eone named Alex Danvers, highest marks they’d ever seen in astronomy, high marks all around in maths, physics, biology… the name is androgynous enough for me to pass the written portion,” Alex places her head against Kara’s shoulder, taking what momentary comfort she can before the torture session she must endure over dinner. “But they didn’t accept the scores of Lady Alexandra Rose Danvers, daughter of the Earl of Midvale. They’ll take one look at me during the interview and offer their congratulations for doing such a ‘fine job, m’lady,’ and then send me on my way.”

“But maybe if you announce it at the table—”

“It’ll create enough of a wave that mother won’t roast me for interrupting her,” Alex concludes. “Hopefully the older gentlemen will have patronizing questions that I can take time answering. The dinner cannot last forever.”

“That’s one way to stall, I suppose,” Kara answers, but her voice doesn’t exude the confidence Alex was hoping for. “Do you have any other option?”

“Rearrange the place settings?” Alex suggests. “So I’m not near Lord throughout the entire affair, stomaching his bravado and arrogance.”

Kara plays with the hem of her black skirt, turning something over in that brilliant Kryptonian mind of hers. Alex can feel it sometimes, Kara’s ideas before the girl even gives voice to them.

“Would you want me to switch—”

“No, Kara, don’t you dare,” Alex chides her. “You are not to come anywhere near that dinner, no matter what you hear of me. In fact,” Alex places her fingers into the sockets of her eyes and rubs, tries to grind away the scratchy, hot feeling threatening to leak through that thin flap of skin. “Lord can know nothing of you. Not how we favor you, nothing other than your position as my lady’s maid. We cannot be reckless and draw undue suspicion, not with this many guests in the house.”

Kara nods her agreement. “And the queen of wherever—”

“Grand Duchess, Kara,” Alex corrects, finally crawling to her feet in her balloon of silken sheath. “I’m less concerned with the opinion of a sovereign of a tiny nation-state on the continent. She’s probably hunched over a cane, blind as poor Mrs. Noonan.”

“Didn’t Mrs. Smith tell Eliza?” Kara asks, clambering up as well. “The operation you paid for was successful, Mrs. Noonan will be back to shouting at the kitchen staff in a week.”

Alex grins, thankful the experimental cataract surgery went over well enough. “No, I don’t think she wanted to worry mother while the temporary cook was giving her hell about this dinner.”

“Alex!” Kara gasps.

“You’ve heard much worse from me, Kara.”

“Come on,” Kara drags her back to the dressing table with all the gentleness of a human. “Do you want me to make you look atrocious for Mr. Lord’s benefit?” she asks, taking a brush in hand.

“I wouldn’t mind it, but Eliza might have something to say about it,” Alex responds, playing with the emerald around her neck. “Best go with the usual. Nothing overly casual, but I won’t pretend as though this dinner is special. It’s only one night I’m to live through.”

“I suppose…” Kara agrees, running the bristles through Alex’s long brown hair. “Alex, would you…” Kara places the brush aside and dips her head. She removes a small silver pendant etched with a Kryptonian rune and holds it above Alex’s head for her to survey in the dressing mirror. “For good luck tonight?”

“Kara—”

“It’s nothing like your emerald,” Kara rushes. “But you could hide it beneath your gown, if only as a comfort—”

“Kara,” Alex stops her, reaching up with her left hand to grab the necklace. “I would be more than honored to wear your pendant. It’ll give me the strength of two planets, I hope.”

Kara smiles wider than the Channel, slipping the pendant over Alex’s head and clasping the hook in the back.

“Very good, m’lady.”

“Kara.”

“Hmm?”

“Shut it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who is incapable of sticking to a word count on her outline... *two thumbs up* THIS GIRL.
> 
> In honor of the day we gained our independence, I'm updating the fic set in the country we fought tooth and nail to get away from. That's the Anglophile in me, I suppose. Happy Fourth of July to those celebrating. To anyone else, enjoy an update!

Astra knows she must make her move this evening.

Three weeks on her depressing, sodden tour of this archaic wasteland has landed her in a backwater of Yorkshire, another grand house with shiny things and lavish dinner parties that seem like nothing more than waste to her developed Kryptonian sensibilities. These humans are in the midst of their industrial revolution, with their wires, gramophones, films—and yet locked away in the royal vaults of Kandor she keeps the Omegahedron, powerful enough to provide energy to her entire country and parts of others, if only there were some network of resource distribution.

But no.

She somehow crash landed on the singular planet in the universe whose timeline leaves her on the brink of technological warfare, yet she must still step high in the metropolitan streets because these base humans have not yet designed an adequate system for ridding the city of _refuse_.

Rao, how she wished for the dry heat of the deserts in Tadnoriel, for her hip flask full of off-world spirits, for her gun slung securely over her shoulder.

Instead, she gets the abysmal grey of northern England and champagne that does nothing but fizz in her stomach. And in place of her sidearm, Astra has her diadem. All well enough, but tucked away for this night in favor of a less ostentatious circlet of jewels, braided expertly into her hair and paired with the black evening gown and gloves she’d been saving for Midvale, specifically. If the spy she'd sent so many month ago had been correct, Kara would be here. And Kara’s only ever seen her in the dark blue robes and black battle suits of Krypton.

It’s been over ten years. Astra wants to seem as familiar as she can.

Astra takes another swallow of champagne and bobs her head as some elderly oaf attempts to talk policy about which he knows nothing, hoping to impress and falling woefully short. The queue wrapped inconspicuously around the entrance hall rotates with the seasoned grace of dancers on a stage. No one is left alone. Pairings and trios converge and converse, gracious and polite, drinking their fill and shifting, so imperceptible it hardly seems noticeable, so that each person makes their way round to pay due deference to Her Royal Highness, Lady Astraella Farzaneh In-Zel, Grand Duchess of Kandor.

Her time on the continent will explain her curious, accented English, but hailing from Europe doesn’t excuse her wavering attention. Her intel suggested that Kara had taken up a role in the serving quarters of this great house, though it had been nearly ten months since her spy’s infiltration. Kara could have moved on in that time, and this entire tour will have been for naught.

No matter how many tales she hears of a superhuman vigilante, swooping in and saving various English citizens from tragedy, she knows Kara will hide for self-preservation. It is only right. It is only safe.

The bald man who has been jawing at her for the past seven minutes bows his farewell and Astra bobs her head, bidding adieu to Lord something-or-other. She can’t really be bothered with his opinion of her at the moment.

“I know this is highly unorthodox,” Astra hears the conspiratorial whisper close, directly over her shoulder. “…but we’ll be going in soon.”

A latecomer Astra had heard descending the stairs has the audacity to sidle up next to her and cut off the flow of the rotation.

Why adhere to these simpering social niceties when even the _humans_ disregard them so carelessly?

“It’s only that I’m desperately trying to avoid conversation at the moment, and I know that once dinner’s announced that conversation will be forced upon me—oh, Winn! Wait!”

“Yes, Lady Alexandra?” a short, appealing footman carrying a tray laden with champagne flutes stops abruptly.

“You are ever a boon during the darkest times, Winn,” the woman—Lady Alexandra—remarks. She relieves Winn of not one, but two champagne flutes, and winks at the young man with a knowing grin.

“Very good, m’lady,” Winn inclines his head, then turns back to the party.

“My apologies,” Lady Alexandra turns to her, bringing one of the crystal flutes to her lips and draining half of its contents. “I’m Lady Alexandra of Midvale, and a less than gracious hostess impinging on your good will as I am.”

“You assume I come here bearing no ill-will,” Astra answers, surveying the woman swathed in deepest crimson and gold, hair like sanded mahogany wrapped in a tasteful chignon at the base of her neck.

Posture: composed, comfortable. Demeanor: assured, charming. Countenance: undeniably attractive. An interesting apparition, Astra surmises, appearing so suddenly and unexpectedly.

“You do not know me," Astra continues. "What if I were some vagrant who’d stolen an evening gown and found my way onto the premises?”

“No vagrant wears diamonds of such design in her hair,” Lady Alexandra tilts her champagne flute at Astra’s temple, smirking.

“I was led to believe no Lady approaches a stranger without a formal introduction,” Astra challenges.

“Of course,” Lady Alexandra swallows the last gulp of champagne and places the first flute atop a nearby wall desk. “Forgive me for my impudence. I know most everyone here, but yours was the first face I saw when I came down, and therefore most convenient.”

“Pity, I’d hoped my allure and charm drew you to me.”

The woman arches a brow at that, taking a moment to survey Astra from top to bottom before continuing:

“I’m only one champagne down for the night, not seven,” Alexandra retorts, a subtle smile gracing her features.

Astra thinks the woman’s refinement is like that of gold in one way, shiny, pretty, an exterior to be admired; yet also, as if she’s walked through fire and emerged with the power of steel, sharpened (a quick tongue) and deft (an eager, keen mind).

“But all joking aside, I do wish to know your name. With all these familiar people I’m obliged to make the rounds at some point; I’d hate to have prevailed upon your good nature and then waltzed off with nary an address for reference.”

“I’m… Lady Astra,” Astra says, and nothing more, fearful of losing the woman’s transparency by revealing her formal title. She doesn’t quite want to scare this Lady Alexandra away, not yet. She’s the most interesting thing that’s happened at this engagement thus far, plus she’s wearing the most curious pendant about her neck.

“Lady Astra,” Alexandra dips into a practiced curtsy. “Unconventional, I suppose, to welcome me despite my rudeness. Certainly not English…a foreign name, then? Your accent does rather give you away.”

“Who am I to escape the judgments you so readily make?”

“I’m not judging, merely deducing,” Alexandra corrects her, taking a more measured sip of champagne from her second glass. “You must know that in order to make it through these evenings without committing the most outlandish faux pas, one must make use of every clue at her disposal.”

“I’m disinclined to believe you hold any regard for adhering to set social standards.”

“Now who’s judging?” Alexandra grins around the lip of her champagne flute, the first signals of a challenge twinkling in irises as warm, as lusciously brown as the firestones of Nudoren.

Astra doesn’t feel outwitted, not quite… but she tastes the beginnings of mental and verbal sparring and oh, it has been some time since any human has dared approach her with such irreverent bravery. Piqued interest has its place and time, perhaps even for later this evening… but her mission must come first.

“That pendant is… unique,” Astra tells her blithely, trying not to fixate so on the stone resting in the hollow of Lady Alexandra’s throat.

“A gift, from a professor in London, though laveliers are hardly amenable to scientific study,” Alexandra fingers the chain looped lightly round her neck.

“Pardon?” Astra says, her focus shifting toward Alexandra's frenetic fingers.

“I know,” Alex titters over the glass of champagne, but the reply seems strangely affected. As if the woman is putting on superficial airs belying a nature far more serious. “I study science. What scandal.”

“In my… homeland,” Astra starts, “Scientific study is the hallmark of nobility. It will save this and every other world in the universe.”

Alexandra stops speaking for the first time since she's stepped up beside Astra, and the moment settles into something more genuine. As if all this time, her airy nature and silence-suffocating chatter was no part of the woman before her. Merely distraction or... something Astra cannot yet identify.

“You’re the first woman I’ve met who has not tottered back and clasped your pearls at that revelation,” Alexandra answers. “Your attitude concerning such interests is… refreshing.”

“Would you rather me comment on the shimmer of your lavelier?” Astra asks her, reaching, then pausing, fingers hovering innocently over the long necklace. “We could discuss the rate of star decay until the dawning, but during aperitifs, perhaps we best stick to the design of accessories?”

"I would much rather discuss the stars."

"But your ornaments have nevertheless caught my eye," Astra remarks. "As hostess, is it not your obligation to see to my wishes? I'm sure that includes conversational topics."

“It’s the blasted length, you see,” Alex indicates the long necklace of linked golden chains and the bauble dangling several inches below her chest. “When I bend to view the telescope, a necklace like this tangles too easily, knocks itself against desktops.”

Astra takes a step closer to Alexandra, and the English lady retreats with practiced caution. Until this very moment, Alex had radiated excited worry, the babbling likely intensified as the woman made quick work of two champagne drinks on what Astra supposes is an empty stomach. Backed into a column and partially shielded from the room by an elaborate, flowering display, Astra notes the first signs of hesitation, anxiety, nervousness. She covers it well, this Lady Alexandra, with nothing more than a twitch in her cheek and a practiced grin so perfect Astra had mistaken it for sincerity. But closer, breaths away, Astra observes the myriad secrets this woman possesses, hidden so well in plain sight, beneath the veneer of gaiety and a forced merriment.

An astronomer in such a remote area? A scientist? One wearing the remnants of a lost world about her neck, probably not the only secret Astra could tear from her throat…

“I’ll ask again… where did you get that pendant?” Astra murmurs, fiddling with the end bauble on the lavelier. She can’t recall the last time she stood so close to a human. The scent is pleasant, a mixture of heavier smells like warm honey and vanilla.

“I’ve told you, my professor—”

Astra runs her fingers up the chain, skimming the fabric of Alexandra’s dress with the tips of her fingernails as she goes, pausing, then pressing at the stone hiding beneath the collar of Alex’s dress. Astra’s not choking her, hardly touching her, but the intent is rather clear:

“The other pendant,” she says.

“What _pendant_?” Lady Alexandra asks soberly, cheerful façade replaced by skepticism and calculated caution. She holds Astra’s stare with a stubborn intensity Astra’s not had the good fortune to witness on a human’s face before and it is… intriguing.

“The one—” with Kryptonian etchings on it. “—the one you’re wearing beneath your dress, obviously,” Astra retorts.

“…how did you know I was wearing a necklace, Lady Astra?”

_Rao._

So she wants to question her this way? So be it.

Astra stands as tall as she can, wonders if she should reveal herself to curtail any further inquiry. She’s grown accustomed to scrutiny of another sort since her accession to the throne in Kandor, so she rarely slips with these unnatural physical abilities of hers anymore. Few in her circle dared to question her directly, even if they did see their sovereign perform any physical feat quite out of the ordinary (for Astra knew she was anything but). So she was amenable to suggestion, advising, as her cabinet insisted. She had to take care, concede where necessary, allow for her cabinet to have some sway in her governing. It would not do to rule so stringently; the false memories implanted by the telepaths on her staff would only hold as long as they fell in line with what the advisors already believed to be true.

“Can we speak somewhere… privately?” Astra mumbles, relieving the pressure on Alexandra’s throat… but only just. Her thumb still lingers at the woman’s neckline.

“…we’re about to go in to dinner,” the Lady Alexandra checks her.

“Just for a moment, Lady Alexandra.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Lady Astra, but I don’t believe a moment of my time is all that you’ll be asking for. You are the one who can apparently _see through my clothes_.”

“There she is!”

Astra and Alexandra snap their hostile gazes back to an appropriate level and back away from each other as a man with dark hair and a half-shaven face approaches with what Astra has heard the humans describe as _swagger_.

She wonders if _swagger_ is not closely related to _drunken buffoonery_ on this planet.

“God, why does he have to show up and ruin one of the stranger conversations I’ve had at one of these parties,” Alex murmurs through a fake smile, her eyes bright with the hostility of the previous exchange. “I apologize if you’ve had the misfortune of meeting him, Lady Astra; then again, you two do have something in common.”

“What’s that?” Astra grits through her own affected rictus.

“I don’t trust either of you,” Alex murmurs. "Maybe you are a vagrant."

“Your Imperial Majesty.”

The American businessman, Maxamillion Overlord, or something of that nature, had pitched company expansion in Kandor for the obligatory three minutes of their initial meeting just after Astra's arrival in the receiving hall. Astra had remained sullen and unresponsive, as was her prerogative. She was here for Kara, not to suffer fools, so why this cretin of a human with the asinine name would dare to attempt a second conversation with her—

“Might I steal Alex from your arm just before dinner?” Lord asks, motioning toward Astra’s only link to Krypton (if that pendant was any clue). “You’ve been monopolizing her time since she came down.”

“And when I have concluded our conversation, the Lady Alexandra is free to leave as she pleases,” Astra retorts, annoyed that anyone would _dare_ impinge upon her discussion. “And the proper address is your Royal Highness. Imperial Majesties are sovereigns to _empires_ , and Kandor is a domain unto itself. Take note if you’re at all serious about international business acquisitions.”

Astra can hear the thudding of Lady Alexandra’s heart increase its pace, notices the whiteness of her knuckles as the woman grips the stem of the champagne flute ever tighter.

“You’re dismissed,” Astra says, returning her attention to Lady Alexandra— _Alex_ —at her side.

“Your Highness—”

“You must not be able to hear over your own pompousness,” Astra snaps. “ _Royal_ Highness.”

“Fine, your Royal Highness,” Max Lord sneers, taking her elbow with no little amount of compulsion. Alex’s eyes go wide at the action and Astra has to keep her fist from flying at the man’s jaw. She cannot self-sabotage her closest opportunity at getting Kara back due to some moron’s overbearing nature. “It’s really of some great importance that I speak with Alex; we’ve significant business to attend to before—”

“I’ve heard of American impertinence, but to witness it first hand is astounding.” Instead of following through on her wish to dislocate the man’s mandible from his face, Astra takes Max’s wrist and curls her fingers around it, applying enough pressure to grind the metacarpals against each other. The color in Max’s cheeks pales behind the stubble, matching his poorly-fixed bowtie. “Is it beyond your puny human processing powers that my conversation with our hostess might be every bit as important as your own?”

“How could—” Max twitches his wrist in Astra’s grip, aghast.

It is with blasé satisfaction that Astra releases him, thankful for the semi-privacy of the column and greenery arrangement near the foot of the stairs. Max jerks his wrist toward his side and flushes in anger, annoyance, embarrassment—Astra doesn’t particularly care to puzzle out the nuances in his expression. She is more than irritated that the man outed her as royalty to her Alexandra, who she’d been learning so much about just through conversation alone.

Conversation, veiled implications, steely stares and the whisper of defiance.

_Thrilling._

Just as she feared, Alex’s head is bowed, her eyes averted when they’d once held Astra’s gaze with such challenge—when she’d been operating under the mistaken assumption that the pair of women were equals.

“Grand Duchess,” Alex mumbles uncertainly, unable to meet her gaze anymore. “I sincerely beg your pardon, your Royal Highness. I took liberties—”

“Spare me,” Astra comments, bringing her gloved hand up toward Alex’s chin to tilt her head up again. Alex’s pupils darken at the contact, the proximity, and Astra marvels at her own reaction, too: fascination, curiosity, an undeniable _connection_ seeing the stone of that damning pendant, warmed from its placement in the dip of Alex’s covered throat.

“You dislike that gentleman as much as I?”

Alex nods her agreement, the material of Astra’s black gloves rubbing over the younger woman’s pleasing face.

“What possible business could he have with you?”

“He is the heir apparent of Midvale,” Alex tells her, turning her head from the touch of Astra’s fingers. She clears her throat, then meets Astra’s eyes once more, the hint of rebellion and irreverence returned. “If I am to have any hope of saving my home, I’m supposed to marry him.”

“You do not seem pleased with this arrangement.”

“If I’m being candid, I’d rather use the word ‘appalled’.”

“With manners like that, ‘disgusted’ could suffice as well.”

“Indeed, your Royal Highness. And yet…” Alex seems to shudder, to prepare herself, rearranging her dress and cocking her head up with all the pride that a lady of her position should wield. “Are you truly Her Royal Highness, the Grand Duchess Astraella of Kandor?”

“You question me now?” Astra replies, widening her stance, the pull of fabric tightening as she shifts her hips and settles her weight. It has been _ages_ since she’s participated in a physical fight and this woman is working under her skin in the most stimulating manner. “Was it not apparent after that despicable interaction with the American?”

“Only… you’re fascinated with my pendant,” Alex says, backing up so that she rests against the column, out of view of the guests in the main room. Astra follows, entranced.

“Well, sovereigns do like their trinkets.”

“You could have fooled me,” Alex answers her, recalcitrant, bordering on disrespectful. “You did crush Max’s cufflinks with your bare hands.”

“You’re mistaken," Astra replies instantly, "how could I have done such a—”

“How close is Kandor to Krypton, your Royal Highness?”

Astra balks, sneers, then yanks at Alex’s long necklace and tugs the woman against her angrily. Astra wants to wrap her fingers around that smooth throat and interrogate the woman until she’s wrung every bit of information from her puny skeleton.

Two hollow thuds echo across the massive entrance hall, followed by the chiming of the half hour.

“Dinner is served,” the butler announces to the room.

Alexandra is breathing heavily, her eyes comically wide. Astra releases her hold, but it's only when Alex plunks the few inches back toward the ground that Astra realizes she'd bodily lifted the woman against the column.

Oh, well.

“We’re not finished here,” Astra snaps at Alexandra under her breath, moving her grip from Alex’s now-broken necklace to the woman’s arm. The golden chain slips from Alex’s neck and pools in a pile of curlicued metal on the floor. Astra kicks it beneath a table and tightens her grip on Alex’s bicep—large, toned for a human female supposedly idling her life away in a great house. Astra doesn’t fear any nosey passersby; the grip is intimate in a chaste way. Onlookers might suspect some fond attachment struck up between the two women, a rather bold English lady and the sovereign of a European nation-state.

Her grip tightens, biting into the flesh of Alex's arm.

Alex gasps.

“You can’t hold me hostage all evening,” Alex whispers. “I’ve got to take my place—”

“I’m sovereign of my own dominion. Try defying my wishes at the expense of dining _place cards_.”

“You’ve got your own appearances to think of as well,” Alex tries, moving across the threshold of the dining room as the crowd parts, allowing Astra to pass. “What will the others imagine you want with me? I'll scream, I'll tell the table--”

“You will do no such thing or I'll snap your neck before anyone else has seen. Something tells me you know I'm able to do so," Astra whispers violently. "I care nothing of this evening, of this place, of _you_. My objective is to learn all I can of Krypton, which you will tell me, or risk me burning this place to the ground, starting with the damned place cards.”

Alex stutter steps as she looks round the table, Astra never releasing her elbow. The young Lady of Midvale approaches the seat on Astra’s right hand and casts a dark look toward the Countess Eliza at the head of the table, the minute shake of her head the only sign of worry. The woman looks beseechingly at Alexandra, nodding discreetly toward a seat near Maxwell Lord, several places down from her own. Alex gestures with equal discretion toward Astra, her shoulders slipping up in a resigned fashion.

“You make quite the compelling argument, your Highness,” Alex mutters, waiting for the others to take their places. Once they're seated, Alex at Astra's side, the Countess Eliza Danvers makes a grand gesture, and the dinner finally begins.

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who finally got her life together enough to think about a royal AU but doesn't know anything about royalty??!!?!?!?!?! Guess who adapted the majority of this premise from the first season of Downton Abbey?!?!! 
> 
> It's a weird mesh, I know, but Astra shows up next chapter. Get ready for the reason I watched Downton Abbey to begin with.... BANTER. And everyone is required to picture Astra in the outfits a la the live Sound of Music because they're super pretty and regal-y looking :D


End file.
